At The Will Reading, My Billionaire Grandfather Left Everyone Millions Of Dollars, While I Only

Cracking The Cryptic Code

My apartment was in Capitol Hill, a cramped one-bedroom that Jessica had always complained about. “Not enough closet space,” she’d say.

She said it was not the right neighborhood and not impressive enough when her book club friends asked where we lived. I’d been a high school history teacher for 10 years.

I made $52,000 a year, which was decent money for Seattle but not Pierce family money. It was not Cameron’s corner office and expense account money—not even close.

Jessica had been a marketing coordinator when we met seven years ago. She’d seemed different back then, less focused on status and more interested in the person I actually was.

Or maybe I’d just been too blind to see what she really wanted. Either way, she’d been getting progressively unhappier over the past 2 years.

There were more complaints and more comparisons to Cameron and his wife Brittany. She gave more hints about how I should ask my father for a position at Pierce Development.

I never did ask. Pride maybe, or stubbornness.

My father had made it clear from the time I was 18 that Cameron was the heir apparent. He was the one with the business degree from Stanford and the natural charisma.

He had the ruthless instinct for deals that made millions. I was the kid who preferred books to balance sheets.

I wanted to teach instead of develop properties and had chosen a different path entirely. Dad and I had barely spoken in the last 5 years.

There were stilted phone calls on holidays and brief appearances at family events. He’d ask how school was going and I’d give generic answers before he found someone more interesting.

I’d thought maybe that distance was mutual indifference. Apparently I’d been wrong.

I sat at my kitchen table with the $10 bill laid out in front of me under my desk lamp. The numbers on the front were 8472291-6753.

The numbers on the back were 0125589847 and that word again: “Remember.” Remember what?

My father and I didn’t have shared memories worth remembering. He’d missed most of my childhood while building his empire.

He missed my high school graduation because of a business trip to Tokyo. He missed my wedding because of a last minute meeting in New York that Cameron attended instead.

I picked up my phone and dialed the first set of numbers adding the Seattle area code. Nothing; it was a disconnected number.

I tried different area codes with the same result. Then I tried the second set of numbers, also nothing.

I stared at that word: “Remember.” What was I supposed to remember?

Why leave me this cryptic message instead of just explaining whatever he wanted to say? My kiss phone buzzed with a text from Cameron.

“Hey bro, no hard feelings about the will, right? Dad always had his reasons.”

“Let me know if you need anything.” I deleted it without responding.

Another text came, this time from Jessica. “I’m at the house. I’m taking the good furniture; you can keep the IKEA stuff.”

The house was the one we’d bought three years ago. We used money my father had loaned us for the down payment.

I’d been paying it back at $800 a month even though he’d told me to take my time. Jessica didn’t know about those payments; she thought the loan had been a gift.

I should have cared more about the furniture, the house, or the divorce. But all I could think about was that $10 bill and my father’s handwriting: “Remember.”

I pulled out my laptop and started searching Pierce Development Corporation history and Richard Pierce’s biography. I looked for anything that might give me a clue.

Hours passed and coffee went cold in my mug. The Seattle rain started pattering against my window and then I found it.

It was a newspaper article from 1987, back when my father was just getting started in real estate. The headline read: “Local developer saves historic building from demolition.”

The article talked about how Richard Pierce had purchased an old bank building at 847 2nd Avenue. It was scheduled to be torn down, but he’d renovated it instead.

He turned it into his first major office complex. 847 2nd Avenue—those were the first three digits of the numbers on the bill.

My hands started shaking as I pulled up Google Maps. The building was still there, now called Pierce Plaza.

The bank that had originally occupied the ground floor was First National Bank, Branch 012. The second set of numbers, 012, had to be the bank branch number.

But what about the rest: 5589847? I stared at those numbers until they blurred, then it hit me.

My birthday is May 5th, 1989—5589. But why add 847 at the end?

I grabbed the $10 bill again, looking closer at my father’s signature. It wasn’t just his signature; there was a tiny addition so small I’d almost missed it.

“Box 847.” A safety deposit box.

My father had left me access to a safety deposit box at the First National Bank branch in Pierce Plaza. I checked the time: 9:47 p.m.

The bank would be closed, but I couldn’t wait. I grabbed my coat, the $10 bill, and headed out into the Seattle rain.